


The Dangerous Edge of Things aka Sherlock Holmes has a Boyfriend who lives in Canada

by dreamingrain



Series: The Dangerous Edge of Things [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Canada, M/M, boyfriend lives in canada
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-18
Updated: 2012-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-29 18:19:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamingrain/pseuds/dreamingrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by a prompt from the kinkmeme - Sherlock Holmes has a boyfriend who lives in Canada. Written back in April 2011.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Roll Up the Rim, My Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Update: This fic is now available in Russian, translated by the lovely Musteline. It can be found here: http://ficbook.net/readfic/755581  
> (holy crap I have no idea how this warranted a translation but I'll take it.)

To: jwatson@yahoo.ca  
From: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
Subject: Availability of prescription medication to UK soldiers

While in service with the Canadian military, what was your opinion on the UK soldiers? Were they able to purchase strictly North American medication from fellow soldiers?

SH

To: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
From: jwatson@yahoo.ca  
Subject: re: Availability of prescription medication to UK soldiers

Sorry do I know you?

To: jwatson@yahoo.ca  
From: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
Subject: re:re: Availability of prescription medication to UK soldiers

Not at all. I was directed to your blog, and I need answers. Quickly, a man’s life is at stake.

To: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
From: jwatson@yahoo.ca  
Subject: Fuck Off Harry

Seriously, who are you? How do you know my blog?

To: jwatson@yahoo.ca  
From: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
Subject: Don’t be tedious

I am not your brother, and I live in the 21st Century. Where people can access all sorts of material online, and while your blog is dull, that doesn’t change the fact that I need an inside opinion.

To: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
From: jwatson@yahoo.ca  
Subject: re: Don’t be tedious

Uhm. Okay, fine. In Afghanistan, troops are usually supplied by their own countries. General supplies do get mixed up sometimes. For instance, I found myself using German- made Iodine quite often. If it was prescription medication, then no. Most soldiers hoard their medication, just in case another supply is delayed. Far more likely that theft was involved.

  
To: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
From: jwatson@yahoo.ca  
Subject: So…

Why did you ask?

To: jwatson@yahoo.ca  
From: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
Subject: none

http://www.thescienceofdeduction.co.uk/thesocialclubforredheads

I used your information to solve a case. Thank you for your time.

To: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
From: jwatson@yahoo.ca  
Subject: Holy

So, wait, you can tell about a person’s state of marriage based on the tie they wear, and how likely someone is to hire a person based on the way they hold their glass?

  
To: jwatson@yahoo.ca  
From: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
Subject: Too Easy

Is the tie creased, how is it tied? If it’s a traditional business tie, with a knot tied from left to right - at least a newlywed. If the tie shows signs of constant loosening and tightening then the marriage is poor or dissolved. Why keep a tie that has been knotted by someone else unless the wearer is either uncomfortable with knots or is keeping it for sentimental reasons. What kind of tie is it? A horrifying novelty tie would indicate married with children.  
The next time you’re out, look at the way people hold their glasses. Are they close to hand, how often do they sip?

Observe and all else will become clear.

Just as I know Harry is your sibling, and a drunkard at that, and that you have a therapist who you dislike immensely, and your return from Afghanistan has left you wounded.

To: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
From: jwatson@yahoo.ca  
Subject: …

You are…amazing.

To: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
From: jwatson@yahoo.ca  
Subject:…

How did you know about the therapist, or Harry, or the wound? That’s not up on my blog.

To: jwatson@yahoo.ca  
From: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
Subject: It’s all there

Just Look

 

___________________________________________________

The first time Sherlock took John along to a crime scene, John was completely unaware.

“Peel back her lips,” he ordered Lestrade, as he pulled out his phone.

Lestrade frowned, “what are you doing, Sherlock?”

“Sending a message.”

  
“To?”

“John.”

“Who the bloody hell is John?”

Sherlock looked up, blinked twice and then back to his phone. “Colleague.”

“Adding another picture to your wall, freak?” Donovan stalked over, peering at the phone in Sherlock’s hand.

“Yes, right next to the picture I have of Scotland Yard being effective. It’s rather dated.”

Donovan scowled and held out her hand. “We can’t have you sending pictures of the victim to the press, hand it over.”

Sherlock merely pocketed his phone and stood up. “John’s a doctor, I need his opinion.”

Lestrade rose too, and crossed his arms.

“Now really, Sherlock, who is this John, where’s he from?”

“Canada.”

Lestrade laughed. “Canada’s not a real place, Sherlock. Couldn’t you come up with a better lie?”

Anderson joined in with a smirk. “where’d you meet him, some freak chat room?”

Sherlock flashed a wan smile. “Better a chat room than your tryst in the washroom. You’ve soap on your shirt still, by the way. Ah, here he is.”

1 New Text

From: John  
Sherlock…is that woman dead? Is that a dead woman? God what’s wrong with her teeth? Why did you send me a picture of a dead woman’s teeth? Wait, how did you get my number?

From: John  
What do you mean, not important right now? It…she’s dead.

From: John  
Well…I guess, the inside of her mouth…it’s cut up, isn’t it?

From: John  
So you’re saying someone stole her retainer? Are you sure she didn’t drop it somewhere?

From:John  
That’s really brilliant.

From: John  
You’re welcome. I guess I’ll add you to my address book.

Lestrade cleared his throat. “You shouldn’t smile so much at a crime scene, Sherlock. It’s not decent. Now are you going to catch us a killer or aren’t you?”

______________________________________________________________________________________

John refrained from glancing at his phone for what felt like the fiftieth time. This Sherlock fellow had appeared somehow, and within the space of a few days, not only knew intimate details about his life, but about himself -his personality.

When John had opened his phone to see a picture of the mouth of a corpse, he almost dropped his phone. “Jesus, what the hell.” He quickly scrolled down to see an SH attached.

_This should freak me out more than it doe_ _s_. John thought, resigned.

_Add New Contact  
Sherlock_

 

After two week of texts interspersed with images and audio recordings, John found himself attached to his phone.

His patients at the Walk-In Clinic hardly noticed when he mumbled a thin excuse to retrieve some file or other when in reality his hand was reaching for his phone before he had got so far as the door. His dates with Sarah did not pan out as easily as his patients.

“John, when you’re with me I want you to be with me.” John’s hand paused mid reach.

“I’m sorry, Sarah, it’s just my friend is having a bit of trouble and-” the phone buzzed again. Sarah raised one brow. John withdrew his hand.

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” He smiled

That did nothing to stop him from checking his phone the moment Sarah excused herself to the washroom.

6 New Texts

From: Sherlock  
Bored

From: Sherlock  
BORED

From: Sherlock  
John, drop whatever it is you’re doing and entertain me

From: Sherlock  
Your date is incapable of intellectual stimulation.

From: Sherlock  
I’m going to die of boredom and you don’t even care. I was even going to call and tell you of my latest triumph that I haven’t even posted on my website. Oh well. Guess you’ll never hear my voice because I’ll be dead.

From: Sherlock  
DEAD

John pressed a smile against his palm and typed out a quick reply.

  
Sherlock wilted on the couch, his limbs sprawling. He had finally managed to scare away his latest flatmate, a man who his brother had assured him was ‘unlikely to spook’.

1 New Text  
Do you have Skype? And while Sarah may not be up to the Sherlock level of intelligence she’s smarter than I am and a good deal more kind. More attractive too.

  
Sherlock snorted. He doubted that. Even with physical perfection, mental imperfection was undesirable. Thus, the whole of the person was undesirable. Still, he knew he had John hooked and so his companion was trivial.

John had been clamouring for details of his latest cases, and Sherlock could hardly be bothered to write up all of his success. They seemed to fade like the afterglow of sex, and they left him wanting more. Until, like today, his mind was clamouring for distraction.

_Oh God, has the world ever been so dull before? How have I managed to live in this blasted place for so long?_ His  
experiments simmered, and in one case, squeaked. Sherlock was at the hub of science, and even this could not please him.

He resolved to count every single one of his bones by feel.

1 New Text  
From: John  
Ok fine, I’ll call you. Sarah’s gone home, you greedy bastard.

Sherlock let the phone ring to voice message.  
“Uh…hi. It’s John. This…is weird. Anyway, I called you so stop your moping.”

_To erase this message press seven, to save it your messages press nine for more option pre- 9._

1 New Text  
From: John  
Answer your phone next time, moron. Also, I took some liberties on my site.

Sherlock huffed, his fingers already typing the address to John’s Blog. Scrolling past the banal, ‘oh I hate my life, I’m being forced to write these’ posts, he clicked on The Adventure of the Crooked Teeth. Really, John?

He then picked up his phone and hit redial.

“Hello?”

John sounded nothing like Sherlock had imagined. His voice had a higher timbre, but held none of the hesitancy that seemed to come through in his texts.

“You named it The Adventure of the Crooked Teeth?”

“Ah, Sherlock, nice to finally hear your voice.”

Sherlock sighed and the silence over the phone stretched into a minute.

“Are you still there?” John asked. Ah, there was the hesitation.

“Yes, just wondering where to start.” Sherlock rearranged his legs on the couch, and for the first time in what felt like his life, he was completely at ease.

  
The routine of John’s day was precise. He woke at seven and walked to the Tim Horton’s by his apartment. It was Roll-up- the-rim- season after all. He’d managed to get his coffee double-cupped with another playable cup and was feeling plenty smug.

He read the paper for a half hour while sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chairs, his double-double to the right of the  
napkin dispenser by five inches. He flipped the continuation of the front page story: a series of tourists murdered in London.

All found shot,but every single bullet missing from the scene. No evidence of a through and through, no sign of a gang-hit, and most victims from Calgary. John shook his head, flipping the paper closed.

He did not recognize any of the faces the paper had printed, but the killings still hit close to home.

After draining the paper cup, he used his teeth to unroll the paper lid bit by bit. Instead of a _please play again_ the message read: _there’s a black car outside._ John glanced outside and sure enough, a black car idled in the lot. could be coincidence John thought. Still, only one way to find out.

He began to unroll the second one. _don’t waste my time, John_.

That was pretty clear.

Gathering the cane at his side and standing with a bit of stiffness, John tossed the cup away before pushing past the door. He approached the tinted window and peered in. The passenger window rolled down in silence.

“Dr. John Watson, come with us,” A woman’s voice called from the back seat.

John looked around. The Tim Horton’s was busy, a few office workers lined up, the morning haggard on their face. Some had kids in tow, hair damp from melting snowflakes. _Right._

He opened the door and slid into the black leather. The woman looked up, a pleasant face illuminated by her phone. Then she ignored him in favour of her screen.

“So, what’s going on?” The woman kept her gaze fixed on her phone.

“You’re scheduled for an appointment, Doctor.”

That sounds bad

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

From: Sherlock  
Find out all you can about those tourists.

From: Sherlock  
What have you found out?

John typed back: I think I’ve been abducted. Also give me more time 

The car sped around the corner, taking strange routes in and out of construction sites and back alleys labelled ‘Dead End’.

After a dizzying route, the vehicle slowed to a stop in the lobby of a half built high-rise.

John shifted in his seat; longing for the weight of his gun for all that it was locked in the small vault in his closet back home.

His laptop was propped on an empty crate, the screen bright. John’s skin crawled and the sense of personal invasion had him tightening his hand around the cane. He approached his laptop, and as he did so the light of his webcam flicked on.

“Ah, John Watson, we meet at last.”

A smooth polished voice emitted from his speakers.

_What the hell_

John limped to his laptop and reached a hand out to shut the lid, the screen dark.

“I wouldn’t do that just yet, Dr. Watson.” John dropped his arm, and fought the urge to step back.

He peered into the screen, seeing only his own weather beaten face reflected back.

“You could have just sent me an email. On my computer. That you’ve stolen.”

A tsking sound emanated from the speakers and the black screen lit up. The image of a man stood in silhouette, far enough away that John knew it was staged.

“You have no sense of mystery, do you Dr. Watson –well I know the answer to that already, no need to speak. Let us cut to the chase. What is your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?”

John thought back to the ever present ringing in his pocket, the emails and the back and forth blogging. He had no illusions that whoever had set up the elaborate abduction had already looked through the emails.

Whoever this man was, he knew more than he was letting on. John felt impressed, against his better judgment.

“I barely know the guy. Am I in trouble, can I leave? I’m leaving, sorry.”

The screen flashed and the man emerged from the shadows, the sharp lines of his pressed suit contrasting with his round face.

“I have a proposition for you, Dr. Watson. One that I think will be mutually beneficial.” The man leaned in to the video, his face taking up the frame.

“I would like you to keep my abreast of your correspondence with Sherlock Holmes. Emails,texts, what you talk about, his cases, who he's meeting, that sort of information. In return I am more than willing to offer financial compensation.”

John brought his shoulders up, snapping to attention. The scar tissue in his shoulder protested the stretching, arm going numb. Hiding his grimace, he shook his head.

“That’s generous, but no thank you.”

“I’m sure we can negotiate.”

“I’m sure we can’t.”

The man’s voice lost the oily quality, and became something harder.

“ Browning once said: Our Interest’s on the dangerous edge of things, the Honest thief, the tender murderer, the superstitious atheist.”

John frowned, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The man tsked again. “That’s right, military doctor. Not very well read. Still, I don’t wonder why he likes you. You’re loyal. It’ll be your undoing.”

John approached the laptop, thinking Right, I’ve had enough of this bullshit.

“Sherlock is a dangerous man, Doctor Watson, and you would err if you forgot.”

“I appreciate your concern. I’m late for work now, so…” John brought the lid of the laptop down, the conversation ending in one decisive click.

______________________________________________________________________________

  
In the car, John turned to the woman. “Would you tell your boss not to mess with my coffee again? It’s unsettling.”

The woman smiled, and John had the sinking feeling that the answer was ‘no’.

John reached for his phone, his companion’s making his fingers twitch.

3 New Texts

From: Sherlock  
Take the Money

From: Sherlock  
Airfare is expensive

From: Sherlock  
What’s the rate of decomposition of a human hand? Never mind, you’ll take too long.

  
Sherlock was not worried. So he would lose an email contact. He would stop having to take pictures of crime scenes – and the praise he was growing used to, well that would stop too. He had done without kind words before.

And perhaps John would see that life was so dull without Sherlock that he would start to text him again and all would be as it had been. Or he would take the money, as Sherlock had advised and he would have double the reasons to keep in contact. No, Sherlock was not worried in the slightest.

Which did not explain why his palms were sweating, or that he could not still his pacing feet. Nor could he explain the fact that the last two experiments in which he analysed the type of soil found in Leeds he managed to contaminate, or the fact that as he waited the hydrochloric acid began to eat through his living room table.

Sherlock was not worried.

John limped in to work, his shoulder aching and his nerves stretched taught. Sarah took one look and sent John home.

“We can’t have you getting the patients sick,” she teased, as she tucked her arm in the crook of his elbow. “I’ll call a cab.”

  
There was a slight chance that Sherlock was worried. Perhaps angry was the better description. Surely Mycroft had not frightened John too much – John was military. He was also an idiot – the kind of idiocy that led a rabbit to curl up next to a fox.

No, John would be rattled, but not terrified. Which meant that he was being ignored, and that did not sit well with Sherlock.

1 New Text  
From: Harry  
game’s on 2nite. leafs vs canadiens. come over for drinks.

_delete_

1 New Text  
From: Harry  
dont ignore me. I expect u 2 come.

John hesitated. Bless Harry, she meant well but he knew that if he went there would be another fight and then they'd go months  
without talking.

He could not change her but he wanted to, and when the conversation circled back to her drinking, to Clara, to  
the fact that a 'functioning alcoholic' was still an 'alcoholic', well that would be the end of that. No, John was not ready just yet.

Distance was one of the only means he had left for preserving their relationship.

To: Harry  
Sorry, busy. Got plans with a friend tonight. Maybe during play-offs?

1 New Text  
From: Harry  
w/ that shirlok guy? dont cyber 2 much what would mom say?

_delete_

Fine, if Sherlock had to admit, he was worried. Perhaps Mycroft had seen John as a distraction or an enemy. A bad influence – which honestly, John a bad influence, ha.

No, Mycroft was too intelligent. He encouraged Sherlock’s social persona, the one that existed only when cameras were rolling. Sherlock’s foray into internet friendship would have been considered a positive step.

Perhaps John was being debriefed, which was better for John. Honesty was important in relationships – especially long distance ones.

The acid had finished its meal of the table and was starting on the floor. Perhaps John really had wizened up and lost his number.

Sherlock moaned.

He had no data. There were a million pathways that could be traversed, thousands of instances that did not quite exist and he had no idea which John had taken. There was no way to predict the outcome because he had no idea of the present circumstances. Simply put he was going-

3 New Text  
From: John  
Who the hell was that guy?

From: John  
Either way, I’ll look up the information. I know some people in Calgary, I’ll give them a call.

From: John  
Seriously though, what the hell?!

_A sixth victim of the Canadian Killer has been found shot outside The Globe Theater this morning. An anonymous tip was sent to Scotland Yard at three o’ clock leading police to the body._

_The victim is 42 year old Mark McMahon. He was visiting family in Manchester and was staying in London for the night. His family reported him missing two days ago.  
Police ask that those with any information regarding this investigation come forward._

_“Our thoughts go out to Mark McMahon’s family here, and in Canada as well as to family of the other victims. We have  
our finest working on this, and we ask for the public’s co-operation at this time.”_

From: John  
Called around – nothing promising. They didn’t know each other. Not close in age, social situation. London is the only link

From: Sherlock  
NO

From: Sherlock  
There’s something that all the victims share, what is it?

From: John  
They all came as tourists to London

From: Sherlock  
Exactly

From: John  
What about the bullets? They say they were shot six times but the bullets are missing

From: Sherlock  
Oh, that. He digs them out. Quite a labour intensive process. He’s either doing it for trophies or the evidence. Dull.

From: John  
He digs them out? How’s that possible? He’d need to have complete privacy in order for that to work.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

He finishes his shift early. People look at him and then through him, his uniform straight. His smile comes easy. His hair is sorted, every inch of him unremarkable. He takes the marble steps three at a time, and looks.

  
His eyes linger on a trio of young girls laughing, speaking in carrying tones of how hungry they are, how tired. Too many at one time, maybe not quite right.

  
A group of school boys pose, fake Burberry and incomprehensible English, no good. He walks past the fountain, pushing past harried office workers rushing to catch the next bus.

  
_He walks across to a different building, and sits on the steps._

_He pulls out his phone and pretends to take pictures of the pillars, the flags._

_A girl sits five steps down and to the right. Her hair is coloured a strange shade of red and she is talking loudly on her phone._

_“It’s Home away from home. Here I’ll take a picture and then call you back after I’ve sent it.” There’s a click and some the chatter of buttons before the girl redials._

_“There, did you get it? I know! It’s great here – yeah, tell Dan I miss him too. I love you. Yeah, ok. Bye.”_

_Perfect._

____________________________________________________________________________________

John’s flat is clean.

When he came back, nothing sat right. Living in Alberta felt like giving in to his past. He knew too many people in British Columbia.

  
He couldn’t be bothered to learn French properly and he did not think cereal-box ingredients counted towards bilingual status. Saskatchewan and Manitoba reminded him too much of where he trained as a teenager, which left Ontario.

  
Not the boroughs. He’d be too alone. No one to hold him accountable, or notice if he just side-stepped out of people’s lives.

He needed the bustle of the city, which left inner-city Toronto. Military training dictated the fold of the bed, the crease of his trousers. Habit necessitated the morning workout regime, and the five minute shower.

Most people have bookshelves, trinkets.

Most people, John knows, are reflected by their walls, what they surround themselves with.

John does not want to see himself reflected, afraid of what he might glimpse.

To be more precise, John’s flat is empty.

As a result, any time spent in the flat is used thus: eating, sleeping, blogging. He reads the paper at Tim Hortons, spends his Sundays sitting in Queen’s Park, or if the weather turns too cold, at Sarah’s.

  
Amongst her fake flowers and dated medical textbooks they sit on the chesterfield and watch Corner Gas, Kids in the Hall, or some brainless American programming.

  
Their romantic relationship stalled forever in the just-friends phase, to which John protests to Sherlock over text. Not that Sherlock could be bothered to care.

  
John has a sneaking suspicion that during those texts, Sherlock has an automatic reply typed out.

When the silence becomes demanding, John calls Sherlock. Most of the time, Sherlock answers. Although John has rang through to his voice mail a number of times only be called back.

  
He doesn't know why he keeps leaving messages, but he does. A small part of him likes knowing that he's managed to become a part of another person's life.

  
Or rather, Sherlock became a part of his life, and John had to adapt.

If someone had told him that he's be fielding calls at 3:00 AM on a constant basis, and love each call, he would have laughed them off. Or shot them.

For all his complaints, the anger, the _strange_ that Sherlock has brought in to his life, John is somewhat happy.

  
His happiness can't prepare him for the giddy feeling he gets, followed by horror when he receives two new messages.

From: Sherlock  
John, I need you

From: Sherlock  
He’s taken another

_______________________________________________________________________________

  
“What is this Sherlock?” Lestrade brandishes a slip of paper. “Why has a one way flight been submitted as an investigation expense? £2500? That’s first class,” his voice is rising.

Sherlock lifts his head from the morgue table where the late Mark McMahon resides.

“Your investigative skills continue to amaze me, Detective Inspector,” he drawls, his gaze sliding back to the corpse.

“I need my Doctor here in order to help me find this killer.”

“This Doct- your Canadian boyfriend? You’re charging Scotland Yard to fly your boyfriend to London?”

“Do you always ask questions you know the answer to?”

From: Sherlock  
Open your email – you’ve got five hours

From: John  
You bought me a plane ticket? Sherlock I can’t afford that

From: Sherlock  
The girl was abducted last night – she’s got a total of two days left before he kills her like the others. Do you want to help or not?

From: John  
Christ, Sherlock. You better be at the airport.

  
Turns out handguns are against TSA regulations.

____________________________________________________________________________

Lestrade settles behind his desk, the blinds closed and the door shut. A cup of hot coffee is cupped in his hand and for the first time in a week he contemplates resting.

  
The door rattles and his hopes are dashed.

“The Freak is bringing someone else in on the case,” Donovan starts without preamble. Anderson is close behind, and half of his department.

Lestrade sighs and takes a sip of his coffee, buying time.

“It’s that John fellow.”

“What, the Canadian?” Anderson asks.

Cooper calls out, “do we have to feed his snow dogs?”

To which Moore replies, “do we have to feed him? I don’t think we have enough maple syrup.”

Donovan turns around and shoots them all a glare.

“I think you lot are all missing the most important aspect of this conversation.”

Lestrade is almost grateful until Donovan finishes, “Where are we going to build the igloo?”

Sherlock is at the airport.

So is Scotland Yard.

“Why are you here,” he asks Lestrade, teeth gritted. Lestrade shrugs.

“Me and the boys-” Donovan clears her throat, “and girls, wanted to give your Canadian fellow a proper welcome.”

“See if he’s real or if you’re just having us on,” Anderson smirks from the back.

Sherlock jams his hands into his pocket and wander over to the greeting area, passing his time by matching incoming people with those lingering around the arrival gate.

_Waiting for Grandmother, obvious._

 

_Picking up a friend they’re infatuated with. Lose the flowers; try to not be so predictably desperate._

_Ah, those two are siblings, just look at those shirt sleeves._

Lestrade follows Sherlock and stands in silence for a moment, watching the arrivals with, what Sherlock expects, sentimentality.

“Is he really coming Sherlock?” Lestrade murmurs, low enough for just Sherlock to hear.

“Of course he is,” Sherlock snaps. “They had to de-ice the wings in Toronto. Honestly, you aren’t even paying attention.”

Donovan smiles, “case of the nerves, lover boy?”

Sherlock ignores her and checks his phone.

Not that Sherlock would ever admit to being nervous. John is after all, a colleague- a friend even. They get on well enough; John answered his calls no matter the time.

  
He was willing to visit him in London, he could probably be convinced to stay too, if Sherlock timed certain aspects of his stay right.

The arrivals board flashes an update and John’s flight number states Arrived in green pixels.

Perhaps he should have let the Yard pick up John, but then, Sherlock’s still curious. He wants to see the way he walks, the way he sets his shoulders.

  
There’s too much that he would miss, and all of the information to be gathered is bright, and  
fantastic and new. And yes, Sherlock knows what it means when a friend from the internet boards a plane with money you’ve provided. He had considered the implications, but he knows that John is coming for the case, for the Canadians.

  
And no he isn’t jealous, because he knows that he can hold John’s attention a thousand times better than any Canadian.

  
Seven hours and fourty-five minutes later John feels compact and wrinkled. He’s flown to the Middle East to fight in a war he didn’t really believe in with a pretty good chance of death, and he can confidently say that the flight from YYZ to LHR was torturous.

  
Beyond the question of how can a child cry for seven hours straight- _they should have fainted - It was physically impossible,_ there was still the Sherlock conundrum.

Sherlock had once sent a picture of himself to John in the early days. It was a bad angle and the man had looked nearly eight feet tall.

  
Now, as John shoulders his duffle bag and waits for his turn at immigration, he starts to wonder, what possessed him to drop his life and jump on a plane.

And why, for all that his leg twinged and his head spun, and the crush of people seemed to press in, John has never felt so much like falling in love as he does while standing in line, waiting for an adventure.

_______________________________________________________________

  
From: John  
Just got in. Waiting in line.

From: Sherlock  
I know

From: John  
Right…I’m guessing you’re here already?

From: Sherlock  
We don’t have much time.

John nods and smiles his way through the immigration officer’s questions, trying not to shift his feet too much. When he is waved through has to force himself to walk past the baggage claim and into the Arrival’s greeting area.

  
Even as unobservant as he is compared to Sherlock, it would have been hard to miss his welcoming committee. Pasting on a grin and hoping his nerves were in check he made his way to the tall, dark haired man, and the ten odd people surrounding him.

“Mr. Holmes”, John greets, extending a hand.

Sherlock smiles and returns the gesture. “Dr. Watson.”

The silence lasts for a moment before the rest of the crew start chipping in.

“Thought you weren’t real-”

“You lost me twenty quid-”

“Do you really use snow dogs?”

The wattage of Sherlock’s smile dims and he rounds on the group that seem to be clamouring for John’s hand.

“Don’t you have a serial killer to apprehend?” He asks in a cold tone.

Lestrade shrugs, “well, apparently we can’t solve this case without your doctor,” he nods to John, and shakes his hand, “and since we somehow financed his trip, it would be terribly rude not to meet him.”

John looks between Sherlock and Lestrade and gives his best ‘I completely understand this conversation’ smile. “Right,” he claps his hands at this, “well, shall we start then?”

Sherlock wraps a hand around the strap of John’s bag and tugs until he lets go.

“We have work to do, John. Let’s go.” He wants to get John out of the airport and away from the Yard as fast as possible. If John is to find out about his personal quirks, of which he’s already quite well versed, he wants the experience to be in his presence, when he can contextualise the situation with logic.

“I can carry my bag, honestly-” John’s left to trail behind Sherlock as he sweeps form the terminal. John pauses to turn around.

“Thanks for coming to meet me, great of all of you. I’ve got to uh…well, thanks for coming.” He finishes, before chasing after Sherlock.

“How long do you give him?” Anderson pipes up.

“Before he runs away, screaming?” Donovan fishes out her wallet, “five pounds on three hours .”

Lestrade shook his head, “I’m not sure, but I say he makes one week.”

A chorus of “I’ll take that bet” rise from the group assembled behind him.

  
The girl stumbles, her hand wraps around a lamp post and the arm of her companion encircles her. She tries to say ‘no’, or ‘help’ but the lights flash and pierce her, pin her down until she’s all but swaying and motion sick.

  
The other person tries to steer her straight, but she crumbles and begins to dry heave, trying to force herself to vomit.

  
“Aite der luv, you orite?”

Someone walking by leans down to her.

“She’s fine,” says the other.

  
The girl wraps her hands around the eye-smarting coat. Manages to choke out an agonised, "drugged," before she's tugged up.

“She just had one too many. Taking her home.”

  
The cab is silent. John tries hard not to stare, so he watches Sherlock’s reflection. His hand keeps reaching for his phone, before he remembers that the only person’s text he’d be checking for is right across from him. He clears his throat.

  
“So, I noticed that the flight was booked one way.”

  
Sherlock gives him the once over before nodding.

  
“I’m not sure how long this case will go on for, it’s best to not make too many plans until then.”

  
John nods, “right. So I’m staying…”

  
“At 221B Baker Street.”

  
“Isn’t that where you live?”

  
“Hmm, yes. My flatmate moved out last week”

  
“Again? How many has that been in the last month?”

  
“Only two or three,” Sherlock waves his hand as if to dash away the memory of them, “I’ve already deleted them. They were boring.”

  
John shakes his head and smiles.

  
“How do you know that I won’t bore you – after all this is our first time together. What if we’re not compatible?”

  
Sherlock shrugs, dismissing the possibility.

  
“I already know what I need to about you. Seeing you in person only confirms that theory.”

  
John smiles, and turns his gaze back to the reflection of the man in the window, watching as the image of London and Sherlock meld and travel through each other like ghosts.

No sooner have they pulled up outside of a quaint Victorian type entrance than Sherlock is tugging John back into the cab, only opening the door to throw John’s duffle inside and yell, “Take the bag upstairs if you would Mrs. Hudson.”

The door shuts as a voice calls out, “I’m your landlady-”

“What- what’s going on? Sherlock?”

Sherlock just grins and waves his phone in John’s face.

John frowns and grabs the phone from Sherlock and reads the message. 

From: Lestrade  
Girl brought in with the same drugs in her system as other victims. Claims she was abducted. Bringing her in once she’s processed.

The phone is plucked from John’s hand and disappears into Sherlock’s wool coat.

“So, we have somebody who might identify the killer?”

Sherlock frowns. “No, she was drugged quite heavily; I’d be surprised if she could remember her own name. She’s useless. I need to see her clothes.”

John mirrors Sherlock’s frown.

“Now, I wouldn’t say useless, she might have some information-”

“No John, don’t be stupid. Any information she might have had is suspect. I need to know where she met the killer.”

“Well, she’s a tourist, like the others. So a tourist site.”

Sherlock scowls. “All of London is a tourist site. Some have taken the tube, others took cabs. Some went on tour buses,  
others went to museums. They all intersect somewhere, John. And wherever those points meet, that’s where our killer hunts.”


	2. I Miss the Poutine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where John goes to Scotland Yard and is disappointed by the lack of Victoriana

Scotland Yard was not what John had imagined. In his head, London was gaslight and steam and the Yard was a large brick building where detectives huddled behind thick oak desks, trying to read by weak electricity or candlelight.  
But no, Scotland Yard was modern. Glass and streamlined -not a candle in sight.

He tries hard to not be disappointed.

Sherlock sweeps in, and John limps in his wake, taking in the looks of dislike as they flash over people’s face. Well, he’d never thought Sherlock would be popular. 3:00 AM calls where he’d have to listen to Sherlock play some Hungarian piece on his violin (and Sherlock would know when John was falling asleep) told him more than enough.

Gone are the smiles and cheerful hellos from the terminal. Lestrade scowled when Sherlock approached his office and rapped on the glass.

Young female. Around 23 years of age. Dark hair. Her hands wrap around a Styrofoam mug –the liquid jitters and splashes the sides of the cup.

 _Shock_ , John thinks at once.  
This thought has him wrapping a hand around Sherlock’s arm and pulling him away from the office.  
Sherlock turns to him, an eyebrow raised.

“I need to ask her some questions, John. Can this wait?”

John shakes his head.  
“That girl, she’s had a rough night.”

“Doubtless many people across London have had a rough night, John. This one might have some answers for us.”

Sherlock made to pull his arm from John’s grip. John holds on for a few seconds before letting go, the threat present in his frown.  
Sighing, Sherlock rolls his eyes and knocks again on the glass. Lestrade waves them in, even though Sherlock is already taking a seat across from the young woman. John settles in the extra chair against the wall.

“What can you tell us about your attacker?” Lestrade asks, as Sherlock leans forward, his hands steepled in front of his mouth.

“I- I don’t remember much. I was walking around, enjoying the sights and then there’s this huge gap between Leiscester and Trafalgar. I went to a movie at Empire,” the girl chokes, her breath shuddering, “and the next thing I know, someone is dragging me somewhere – oh god I just want to go home.”

Lestrade grimaces, his hand coming to rub his temples.

John interrupts the girl, “What movie was it?”  
She cranes her head to look at him.

“I’m sorry, what?”  


“What movie?”  


“uhm…Frankenstein.”  


“Oh, I’ve seen the trailers – any good?”  


“Yeah not too bad. Some weird English moments,”  


John huffs a laugh. “I’ve been here less than a few hours and already it’s overwhelming. I’d kill for poutine.”  


“I’d kill for ketchup chips. I mentioned them to some of the people at the Hostel – they acted as if it was the most disgusting food they’d ever heard of.”  


“Clearly they were never educated in the joys of the-”  


Lestrade coughs, and John wraps his hand around his cane, heaving himself up.  


“I’m going to get some tea, want more?” He asks the girl. She flashes him a smile.  


“Yeah, thanks.”

By the time John has returned with the Tea, Sherlock is already walking out of the office. Swearing, he gives the girl the cup he made and waves to Lestrade.  
When he catches up with Sherlock, he’s tries hard not to pant.  
Falling into step beside the man, he looks up and wonders for the hundredth time how any one person ever grew so tall.  


“You stopped her from having a panic attack.” John starts before his face floods red. He looks away again.  


“I am a Doctor. I’m surprised the hospital released her.”  


“She doesn’t have traveler’s insurance.”  


“So?”  


“She was worried she’d have to pay. When Lestrade showed up, she jumped at the chance to leave.”  


John pressed his lips together, thinking this through.  


“I don’t have travelers insurance.”

  
“Of course you do.” Sherlock stares straight ahead as he pushes past the large doors to outside. There’s a strange silence that John’s not sure he wants to break.  


“So what did you find out?”  


“She’s a history major. Decided to _discover_  herself. Oldest child. Recently broke up with her boyfriend. The hostel she’s staying is within an eight block radius of Leichester Square. All completely useless.”  
Sherlock scoffs, giving a sharp turn of his head as if tossing the memory of the interview from his head.  


“What about the fellow who brought her in?”  
Sherlock smiles.  


“We’re going to see him, aren’t we?”

Sherlock’s arm is already in the air, hailing a black cab.  


“National Gallery,” Sherlock directs once the door has closed.  


The moment the cab pulls up to Trafalgar Square, Sherlock thrusts a handful of notes into John’s lap and jumps out of the vehicle. John looks down. The Queen looks up.  
Right.

Sherlock climbs the steps of the National Gallery, long legs taking the stone slabs three at a time.  
And for every step he skips, his mind is five ahead. The girl’s rescuer works at the gallery. Their paths would cross if she had stayed to the main tourist attractions, Trafalgar Square, The National Gallery – and presumably the Underground.  
Useless.

“-lock”

The chatter interferes, brings him back from his thoughts. He wants to snarl at the world, tell all the tourists to be quiet, all the shrieking children that there is No God, or No Santa Claus, or No Such Thing as A Parent Who Loves You, whatever it is they believe so that they can fall silent in horror.  
“Sherlock”

Sherlock looks to his phone, but he hasn’t rung John – he doesn’t know why his voice is-

“Sherlock,” John shouts.

Ah. John is here.

Sherlock pauses, gives the shorter man time to catch his breath.

“Do you know where you’re going?”

The look he gives John is scathing. John holds his hands up in front of himself and Sherlock relents.

“We have to find the fellow who picked her up. She was brought in around seven in the evening, rather early. The person who brought her must work the eight to four shift if we are to account for her being picked up and drugged – so 6-6:30 is when our killer hunted. Most serial killers hunt by habit – they have a routine or ritual they follow.

Last night He somehow failed to calculate some aspect of his plan –either she’s more tolerant to drugs than the others or she didn’t take the full amount. Either way he’s been denied a victim and looking for another. Our chances of running into our killer are high – we just need to find out the Gallery worker’s route and station ourselves along the possible intersections.”

John shakes his head part bewildered and part admiring.

  
“So what happens if the killer changes his route?”

“He’s not clever enough. No, up until now he’s been lucky. In and of itself this case hardly warrants my attention.”

John pauses, then hurries again when Sherlock brushes past the door and stride into the main entrance.

“He picks up tourists and kills them. Not the work of a genius. Not worth the attention of a genius.”

  
“Despite the fact that six people have been killed?”

  
Sherlock scoffs. “Tourists are killed every day. Mostly from their own stupidity. No, there’s only one reason to even consider the case.”

John sighs and asks, “What’s that?”

  
Sherlock stops, his coat swinging with the momentum.  
He does not look at John.

  
“They’re Canadian.”

Then he’s walking again, footsteps echoing off the polished floor and John staring at his back.

The interview is illuminating. It goes something like this

  
“Where did you find the girl?”

  
“when I was walking home. Some guy was dragging her along.”

  
“Can you remember his face?”

  
“Uh…dark hair..or maybe light? Tall-ish.”

  
“Any distinguishing features?”

  
“Crooked nose?”

  
“Where was it you were walking?”

  
“I just got off my shift. I’m not sure exactly where we were.”

Sherlock spins around and leaves, brushing past the revolving doors and jogging down the steps. John trails behind.

“He’s lying.”  
John quirks his eyebrow.

“It’s obvious.”

Sherlock sighs when John shakes his head. “You wake up every morning at five. You could tell me a second by second recount of your day. Habit. This fellow works the same shift every day for six months. After the first week he’s had already established his short cuts. He’d know where he was, could walk home in the dark”

  
“So, he’s lying.”

  
The edges of Sherlock’s lips turn up for a second before his face smoothes.

  
“So he’s lying.”

  
Sherlock presses a hand to John’s shoulder and stops him.

  
“I need you to sit on those steps over there.” Sherlock points to a tall building across Trafalgar Square.

“What, but why?”

“It’s very important.”

“Me sitting on steps is important?”

“Oh yes, John.”

John shrugs and wades through the crowd. He turns in time to see Sherlock hail a cab and disappear inside. Well then.  
He concedes that he might be there for a bit longer than five minutes. He stretches out his legs, leans back and takes a breath on the steps of Canada House.


	3. God Keep Our Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the chase is on, eh?

 

 A risk, others might say. A calculated outcome, Sherlock asserts. That is, John is perfect. Unassuming, small. 160 pounds, 5’7, soft in the face. Then there’s his limp – like blood in the water. Of course, John doesn’t know this – how could he? He’s too used to looking over his shoulder, certain in the strength of his hands – even if his leg is unreliable.

No, Sherlock knows that John is perfect, or at least for this, he’s perfect enough.

Two hours later, and it starts to rain. The air turns chill and on the marble steps John invents curse words. Inscribes them in his mind so might use them again later when Sherlock returns. If.

“Right freezing, innit?” The museum worker pauses at the base of the steps, his smile affable, hands tucked in his pockets.

“Damn cold. Nothing like back home but still.”

John’s not used to the humidity, the way that the cold curls in to all his joints. That’s for the Quebec kind, or the Vancouverites. Not his prairie bones, desert heart, although his Toronto skin is familiar with the muggy heat.

The man peers up at John from the steps, “where’s the bloke that was with you?”

John shrugs. “I’m just visiting and got swept up in his investigation. No idea where he is now.”

The museum worker stands for a few minutes more and John feels his muscles tense.

“Wanna go for a pint? I know a nice place close by, we can talk more about the girl. You can tell your friend where you went.”  
John looks around, sees no sign of Sherlock. His realises that his toes have lost feeling and his jacket clings to him. Damn, he’s cold.

“Yeah, let’s go.” He pushes up from the marble steps, and rubs his hand on his jacket, and takes out his phone.  
He flips the screen open and finds that there are now only five numbers in his phone book, four of which are labelled Not Sherlock. John wants to punch Sherlock and laugh at the same time. He settles for texting the man and following the other fellow through the crowd.

“What’s your name?” John asks

“Peter. Peter Steiler.”

The pub is hidden in twisting streets with looming windows. John feels like if he stretches out his hands he'd be able to touch both sides of the street. The door is painted green, chipped and peeling, and when Peter lugs the door open by the spiraling brass handle, John feels a moment of unease at the dark beyond. 

Squaring his shoulders he steps into the warmth beyond. His eyes need a minute to adjust and only after they've settled at a small table in the corner of the pub is he able to look around. Some man slumped at the bar, two others gathered around a darts board. A man and a woman converse in carrying tones about the Lib Dems, while the bartender shoots annoyed glasses at everyone and everything. John is glad that the cloth used to wipe down the bar is wet or else the bartender would have burnt a hole in the wood with the furious circles he's making.

Peter clears his throat and John looks back to his companion.   
"I'll go get us some drinks, shall I?" Peter offers, hands brushing the wood of their table in an absent gesture

 

When Peter comes back, a mug of pale ale in each hand, John thanks him and starts in on the small talk.  
 

“So how’d you get to working in the museum? What do you even do?”  
 

“I used to work at a hotel but that just didn’t work out for me. Another Pint?”  
 

“Oh, sure.”  
 

John takes another swig, smiles at Peter. Smiles at how after his second pint Peter’s hands are unsteady, his voice slurred. John feels like water might be stronger than the beer Peter is ordering. Still, a drink is a drink.

“Shit,” Peter curses as his unsteady hand knocks his mobile to the ground. John hops off his stool and grabs the phone.  
 

“Cheers mate.”  
 

John shrugs, “No worries.”

Peter’s hands tighten on his mug, and John presses down a grin. John’s careful to lift the glass to his lips. Move his throat like he’s taking a long swallow. After three of these gestures his mouth feels paste-like. John fiddles with his phone, sends off a text, and then returns his attention to Peter.

“Sorry, just asking my friend where he is. Think I’m getting a bit drunk.”  
 

Peter smiles.  
“I can give you a ride home if you want.”  
 

“You’ve got a car?”  
 

“Well, not exactly. More like I’ll help you find your way home.”  
 

John laughs. “Is it that obvious that your trains are confusing?”  
 

Peter shrugs. “I’ve heard that from a lot of people.”

And when later, John stumbles from the pub, arm slung around Peter’s neck, he doesn’t waste time checking his phone.

When they’ve walked two blocks past a tube station, John tilts his head.  
 

“You’re not taking me home, are you?”  
 

Peter smiles, and John sees cat teeth and needles.

John sighs. “So why Canadians?” Peter doesn’t even blink, doesn’t wonder at John’s lucidity. The rest of the drug will hit him fast enough, he reckons.

“You’re convenient. Think that once people learn you’re not American tourists the world is going to just spread its arms for you. Ha. Too easy.”

“I think you’ll find that not all Canadians are easy.”

John draws his head up, the limp limbs regaining their earlier co-ordination. The arm that was slung around Peter’s neck becomes a vice.  
John scoffs. “It was either the army or the RCMP. I’m not stupid enough to trust my drink alone with a suspect in a murder investigation.”

Peter pushes against John hard, slamming him into a tall fence. The wrought iron catches John’s shoulder and he hisses, dropping his arm down.  
 

“Son of a bitch,” John growls, lunging for Peter. Wide eyed, Peter spins around and breaks into a run.

“Come on,” A figure rushes past John, clutches at his elbow. John lunges forward, pulled as if on a string.  
 

“Sherlock?”  
 

“Talk later.”

There’s a rhythm in his body that John remembers. The gasp of breath and pounding of his heart – the ache in his limbs as they stretch and fight gravity, propelling him towards the dark oblivion that he’s always sought. Either in sand swept fields before the sun has dared touch the sky, or in his little apartment in Toronto when he wakes up feeling alive and ready, and oh god please yes. And there the beat comes again, thrumming in his mind and the ground beneath him until he can feel the echoes in his bones like a passing train.

  
  



	4. With Glowing Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What...How did this get over 10K. That is ridiculous, fic. DO YOU HEAR ME. Ridiculous. You were supposed to be a short one-shot. A flash of red and white glory. WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU FIC. LOOK AT YOUR LIFE. LOOK AT YOUR CHOICES.  
> Also, there's a small sex scene that will be posted after. The reason I'm not posting it with the fic is because the Asexual aspect of Sherlock is such a fantastic part of the Fandom, and I'd hate for those who came to read Ace!Sherlock get bludgeoned over the head with sweet sweet lovin. Thank you all for reading this fic, and I hope to see y'all in the future. Of course this too is unbeat'd or brit-picked. One day I'll fix that but until then... Oh well. Without further Ado - I give you the final part of The Dangerous Edge of Things

Street names fly past his head, dead kings and old professions flashing and then gone as ahead of him Sherlock takes the corners, flings himself over stairwells, and once –only once- dashes through the living room of an old asian couple watching Doctor Who.

“How’d you find me?”

“I was at the bar”

 

“No you weren’t.”

 

Sherlock smirks, the edges of his mouth raising for a second before pressing flat again. “Of course I was.”

 

John thinks back to the bar – the dart players, the couple, the bartender, the drunk- the bastard.

 

“You looked but you did not observe. “

Then they’re flying around a corner, and ahead a shadow disappears into a boarded up restaurant. John tries not to groan.

 

“Seriously, how many abandoned buildings are there in London?” He huffs.

 

Sherlock looks at him askance “Which part?”

 

The sign of a rooster hangs over the door, the paint long since faded and only the suggestion of red can be seen in the sodium wash of streetlight.

They both pause at the opening in the boards. John moves to go in first.  
Sherlock stretches a hand and lays it on John's arm, restraining him.

 

“Think about the bodies. All of them drugged. All of them shot. Why shoot a drugged person other than for sport. Six times, why six? Furthermore the bullets entered the body at a downward angle indicating he shot from above.”

“Fish in a barrel.”  
John grits his teeth.  
They sidle past the broken glass and John winces when the boarded window creaks as the squeeze through.  
He closes his eyes for ten seconds then opens them, his vision adjusting to the darkened interior.

“Wasn’t easy, was it? Being tossed around. You couldn’t stand not getting that promotion, could you?” Sherlock calls into the darkness. John swings around, hands raised in a _what the hell are you doing_ gesture.

Sherlock tries to sidle ahead of John, only to be pulled back. Even without a uniform, John isn’t letting a civilian be his shield.

It’s annoying and troublesome, and Sherlock can’t help the bloom of warmth that spreads in his chest.

“Have you ever cornered a wild animal,” John hisses. “They fight.”

The inside of the restaurant is dark and plastic sheeting covers the fabric booths in the corner. On the far wall, incomprehensible yellow graffiti mars the dark green wallpaper. There’s a small bar crowded against the back – the mirror behind the heavy wood splintered, throwing the reflection of Sherlock and John. John pulls them down until their heads are below a table and their images vanish from the shards of glass.

John looks to Sherlock, who takes the restaurant in at a glance then jerks his head to a series of stairs disappearing up to a secondary floor.

_Well damn_ , thinks John.

“Did you call the Yard?” He whispers. Sherlock tilts his head, pretends he’s thinking about it.

“Of course you didn’t, you idiot. Well text Lestrade. Tell him where we-”  
The familiar sound of a gun being cocked stalls John’s words, and his hand is pushing Sherlock’s head down before he even realises.

“You’re just two more exhibits I’ll have ready for tomorrow,” Peter yells down. John grins, twitches his body to face the direction of the voice.

“Keep him talking,” John murmurs, mouth brushing Sherlock’s ear and then he’s gone, head low, using the wooden tables for cover.

“What was it like,” Sherlock begins, “finding out that your mother left your father after you killed your first animal? If you ever wondered, then yes,  she left because of you.”  
There’s a moment of silence, then a shot that’s too close for Sherlock’s comfort. He moves to the right, keeping low and out of sight of the stairs.

John can see the stairs, the wood paneling, and the lip of the dark wood on top with a lighter base beneath. The wood creaks when Peter moves, he’s keeping to the wall, trying to spot Sherlock and John – a venture John is afraid will be successful once Peter’s eyes fully adjust.  
He feels his shoulder tense when the shot goes off, and after the second burst, he contemplates martyrdom.

“Of course, it’s not as bad as when your dad left you a few years later. How long did the cheques come until you stopped believing he’d come back?”

_Four shots left  
Three_

The second bullet splinters the table that Sherlock’s under and the wood digs into his coat. He hisses, then turns off the pain.

_One_

“Even the way you murder is dull – just as much as the little world you’re trapped in. Arrange them outside of visited spots, drugged enough to forget their own names, but still shot. I’d rather go to the Tate Modern Art than any of your crime scenes.”

_He’s reloading._

John rushes up the stairs, plows into Peter and tackles him to the ground. Peter flails, the gun glancing a blow to John’s temple and for a moment his world goes white.  
“-going to kill you first and then your smug boyfriend. Dump you both right outside the Tate. Or into the Thames.”

When Peter levels the gun on John, the ex-soldier training kicks in and with the most efficiency possible John breaks Peter’s nose, then neck. The gun falls to the ground with a heavy thunk. Sherlock is by his side in seconds, fingers pressing to John’s scalp.

“Are you alright?” He asks, voice strained.

“Yeah,” John rasps. “you?”

“Fine.”

“You killed him.”

John looks down at Peter. Examines his conscience, how he should feel versus the sense of righteousness that fills him.  
“Yeah. I did.”

“Well then.”  
Sherlock looks around, and then grips the banister. He shakes the railing, and stepping back, kicks the barrier down, splintering the wood. Then, hauling the body of Peter, he rolls him to the edge.

“You two struggled. He went over. Broke his neck. The bruises will show up long after he’s been interned." 

With a grunt he pushes Peter of the edge and he lands with a sick thud.

John nods.

“I thought your army was dedicated to peacekeeping.”

“Let me emphasize the word army.”

Sherlock tips his head in a smile, his teeth flashing and John finds himself laughing in return.  
They laugh until John wheezes, and Sherlock has to press a hand to his chest to reassure himself that his lungs continue to draw breath.  
Filled with the afterglow, and the leftover adrenaline coursing through their veins the laughter springs from nowhere, _g_ _od it’s good._

When they manage to choke down some air, John says, “What I don’t get is how most of them were Calgarians.”

Sherlock looks at him like his head is full of bricks.  
“Canadian Affair.”

 

“What?”

“It’s a website – offers cheap flights between the UK and Canada. They all happened around the same time because the flights were on special. Thomas Cook airline was selling last minute seats. That was the easiest part – knew it from the beginning.”

John smiles and shakes his head.

“Of course. Brilliant.”

Sherlock smiles again for second before glancing to his phone which is glowing a bright blue.

“That will be Lestrade. I’ll tell him the good news.”

The next morning Sherlock is gone. John putters about the flat, rearranging the cusions, watching incomprehensible talk shows, and being disturbed by the general fridge contents.

When Sherlock comes back at three in the morning he smells awful and there’s something green that’s stuck to his hands.  
When Sherlock reappears from the shower John hovers until Sherlock claims the couch and the chair is empty for him.

“So, about Canada-”

“Right,” Sherlock glances up from his laptop, “when are you going back?”

John shrugs. “When does the ticket say?”

Sherlock waves in a vague manner to a pile of papers in the corner. “I deleted it. Look yourself.”

“Well…” John trails off “I had a good time.”  
 _Oh god_ , he winces, _hunting serial killers should not come off like a date._

Sherlock looks up hands bridged beneath his chin. “You were necessary for the investigation.”

“Right. Necessary. Right.”

Moving to the pile of papers in the corner, John ignores the burn in his throat. Sherlock was just an internet friend anyway. He shouldn’t be so invested. None of it mattered to the consulting detective.

Just as well the ticket for the return flight was in two days. He’d just call and get an earlier flight. No matter the cost.

 

When John heaves his bag down from the spare room, Sherlock stops him in the hall.  
“You can stay as long as you would like, John. No one is forcing you to leave.”

“I’ve got a job back home, Sherlock. I can’t just…I can’t just leave everything behind on a dime. Real life doesn’t work like that.”

Sherlock scoffs. “Of course it does.”

“No, Sherlock. Just for you. Only for you.” He brushes past Mrs. Hudson as she bustles up the stairs.

“Oh, leaving so soon? I was just going to make a nice cuppa for you and Sherlock.”

John grimaces. “That would be lovely, Mrs. Hudson, but I’ve got a plane to catch and a car waiting outside. Thank you though.”

He calls back over his shoulder, “Goodbye, Sherlock.”

“Goodbye, John.”

The Yard drives him to the airport. He lugs his duffle from the back and swings it over his good shoulder. Lestrade clears his throat.

“You don’t have to rush home so soon.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Could you take Sherlock with you?” Anderson calls from inside the unmarked car.

“Look, I appreciate this. You didn't have to bring…everyone.”

“Well we have a bit of a bet on, you see.”

 

  
“Sherlock’s going to come get you before your flight,” Sally asserts.

“He’s an idiot, and a sociopath, but before you showed up, he was a million times worse.”

“When he started calling you on crime scenes it was _John said this_ , and _John thinks it’s that. He’s wrong of course but_ -”

Lestrade shakes his head. “Well, if you need a place to kip next time you’re in London, give us a shout.”

“Thanks, I will. Well, pip pip tally-ho.”

John is met with silence.

“Is- isn’t that what you Brits say.”

Donovan shakes her head in a slow side to side.

Lestrade leans in. “Word of advice,” he murmurs, glancing over his shoulder at the Yard before returning his gaze to John. “Don’t say things like that. People’ll think you’re a knob.”

“Uh, right. Knob.” John has a feeling he doesn’t want to ask what a knob is. Really really doesn’t.

McGillian chokes a laugh.

John shrugs, doesn’t look behind when the heavy glass doors slide open. Doesn’t dare give himself permission to hope that Sherlock is coming for him. Will throw out a hand and beg him to stay.

_No_ , John thinks, _I just got used to being needed._

________________________________________________________________

  
The word fills him, robs him. Cuts away at the small tenuous connection between his head and that curious disquiet in his chest. Oh, for a knife as keen as the word Goodbye.

He doesn’t know how to say what he means. What having someone to talk to meant. How even though it was all pixels and bad receptions – how _not alone_ he felt. To have someone interact with him as if he were ordinary. What crossing that chasm had taken – how he’d never hated the stillness until he’d had someone to break it.

 

And then having to return to that bleak space. Oh, his puzzles would come, no doubt. Blood spilled to reflect the night sky – but him alone – the comforting weight of his mobile now light in his hands. Will float away in his hands. Will never mean the same in his hands.  
And to let everything slip through his hands.

 

Well, there’s only one logical conclusion. John must stay.

So he runs. He urges the cabbie to drive as if his wife and two children (obvious, look at his collar) were in dire straits. Sherlock knows it’s useless. He runs through the doors anyway. He hunts down John’s flight number. Feels like tearing a hole in the floor and crawling into it when he sees that John’s flight already left.

To: Sherlock  
From: John

Are you at the airport?

To: John  
From: Sherlock

No. Why?

SH

To: Sherlock  
From: John

Because I can see you.

  
Sherlock spins, his heavy coat flaring about his knees.

“You’re still here.” He says, disbelief in his tone.

John shifts, his shoulders tensing beneath the beaten leather jacket. “Well, I was pulled aside be security and missed my flight.”  
Sherlock mutters something that sounds like _Thank You, Mycroft,_ and wraps his arms around John.

“Stay,” he mumbles into John’s oatmeal jumper.

“Why,” John asks, bitterness in his tone, “am I necessary again?”

Sherlock sighs. “You were always necessary.”

 

And later, when Sherlock takes the bag from John a second time and deposits the duffel in _John's Room_ , he smiles. A small secretive grin. 

 

It was never about The Canadians, just his Canadian. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://dreamingrain.tumblr.com/) if you're lookin. Drop me a line, a prompt, a question, or anything really. The ask box is always open. Thanks for sticking with this fic - for your kind comments and kudos. This never would have been written without all of you. (So really, it's all your fault)


End file.
